


Brokeback Office

by Cawaiiey



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Creampies, Dirty Talk, Implied genyatta, M/M, Oral Sex, Unsafe Sex, ask to tag, businessman!Hanzo, dick piercings, i literally never write about them using condoms im sorry, im a filthy slut who loves creampies, implied r76, repairman!McCree
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 19:20:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8502274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cawaiiey/pseuds/Cawaiiey
Summary: Hanzo has a Brokeback Mountain fantasy, a meddling little brother, and there's a new cowboy in the office that he doesn't recognize. And that he certainly does not have a crush on, regardless of what his French coworker might think.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! I'm back with another monster fic LOL, this was funny to write, I had a ton of fun getting it done!! It's a prompt from adorable-as-fuck.tumblr.com and the prompt was: "mchanzo with business man Hanzo who keeps running into McCree doing odd jobs and maybe them boning in the end. And Genji being a shit". I hope that you guys like it!! Without further ado, here's this crazy crack-esque fic!

Hanzo has worked in this building for the better half of a year now, at a desk job, working on reports this and financials that. Honestly, he has no  _ idea _ what he does at this job. They put files on his desk, give him instructions, and he performs the tasks to the best of his ability. He gets weekends off, 401k, more than sufficient pay, and insurance. Even dental.  _ Even dental _ .

Still, he can’t help but be completely disappointed with the day-to-day routine that he’s stuck in. He gets a little cubicle (that, honestly, he could decorate, but he hasn’t bothered to do much else than put a small cherry-blossom bonsai tree in the corner. A reminder of home, a welcome splash of color against the dreary walls) and a dual-screen computer, a file cabinet, and privacy. Sometimes he wonders if the pay is worth the monotony, because he swears he can feel himself dying inside a little every day, but then he looks at his rather spacious apartment in a good neighborhood, looks at the luxuries that he can afford, his car and his traditional clothing that he lounges about his home in, and decides that his job could consist of doing nothing but standing in one spot for nine hours as long as they paid him what they did.

Perhaps the only downside to his job, other than the monotony, was the fact that Genji worked with him. It wasn’t that he disliked his brother, god no, but the younger Shimada was a  _ menace _ , even at work. Regardless of the professional setting, he would tease and poke and prod at Hanzo whenever he got the chance, on the in between of “brotherly fun” and “being a fucking asshole”. He usually grits his teeth and bears it, though he’s snapped at Genji over his behavior once or twice. It didn’t matter, he would just pout and whine and wheedle Hanzo into feeling slightly guilty, he would apologize for snapping, and the cycle would begin anew.

It’s fine, though, really. He can ignore his brother’s antics for the most part, and he has some… interesting coworkers, to say the least. The upper management consists of a (rather intimidating) trio of old veterans; Ana Amari, Jack Morrison, and Gabriel Reyes. The three had history, and it shone through in every interaction of theirs. And, while they were quite intimidating in the office, outside of it, at company parties and picnics, they were a riot. Ana would tease in good-nature, acting like everyone’s collective grandmother, and Gabriel was something else when he wasn’t in a position of power. Despite the scars that decorated his visage, he was goofy and a jokester and much too kind, especially to Jack. Oh, and Jack, he was awkward when he wasn’t acting as part of the upper management, only letting his guard down around Ana and Gabriel, and more so around the latter. Hanzo will never forget the Christmas party he’d attended (at his brother’s insistence), where he’d caught Gabriel and Jack engaged in a heated kissing session in the kitchen when he’d walked in to grab more spiked eggnog. They hadn’t noticed him, however, so he’s had to live with the knowledge that two of his managers were involved in a way that he did  _ not _ want to know about for the past six months.

Upper management aside, he had a few coworkers that worked in the same (or similar? He had no idea what his title was at this company) positions that were fine to be around. For one, there was Amelie Lacroix, a French woman who had an impeccable fashion taste and a sarcastic, witty sense of humor. He enjoyed being around her more than anyone else, to be frank. And then there was Satya Vaswani, the Indian woman that enjoyed order and harmony around the office, and could serve up some of the best office gossip around, something that Hanzo and Amelie partook in quite frequently. Other than those two, he hasn’t bothered to associate himself with much of anyone else. Sure, he knew their  _ names.  _ Mostly. But he knew how many coworkers he had and their faces, even if their monikers evaded him when they engaged in conversation.

But this person. This person was new. He’d never seen him around the office before, and he certainly would have remembered him if he had. Who could forget a tall, muscular bear of a man with a stetson and cowboy boots on, with actual  _ fucking spurs,  _ wandering around the office building, dressed in a plaid button-down shirt (that stretched nicely across the plane of his back,  _ God _ ) and nicely fitting blue jeans? Hanzo definitely didn’t linger on the “nicely fitting” portion of that description. His eyes did not lock on the swell of his ass as the man bent over and fiddled with something. Certainly not.

And, even though he did not do that, he was apparently standing there long enough to warrant a greeting from this stranger in his office building. He’d zoned out (thinking of work, obviously, and not the odd cowboy) and suddenly there was a hand in front of his face, waving up and down to get his attention, and a ruggedly handsome grin assaulting his irises. What the fuck. Who the fuck. Hanzo snapped back to attention, forcing himself backward so he wasn’t being accosted by someone who really had no right looking as good as they did, what with the fact that they were wearing a  _ fucking cowboy hat _ . Who the fuck wore cowboy hats, and in an office setting no less?

“Whoa there!” He even talked like a cowboy, with a smokey twang and a deep timbre that shot through Hanzo straight to the core. His eyes widened slightly despite himself, though he managed to school his expression as he physically stepped backwards. There was a hint of mirth in the stranger’s eyes, as his hands settled over his hips, the spurs on his boots jingling as he shifted where he stood. “Didn’t mean to startle you, darlin’, was just wonderin’ where you went off to. Standin’ there with yer head in the clouds.” Hanzo scowled, clutching the files he was holding tighter, wondering where exactly this person got off asking him questions like that. How presumptuous of him.

“My apologies,” he grits out, watching the way that expression of mirth shifts into one of surprised confusion, and he silently prides himself on it, “I did not know my train of thought was something to be discussed by a strange  _ cowman _ .” Hanzo turns on his heel and walks away from the handsome cowboy, leaving him flabbergasted with whatever he had been working on. He filed the encounter away as something strange that would never happen again, just an odd change to his normal monotonous routine. And, while he could appreciate his face, the man was slightly presumptuous and overconfident, something that Hanzo did  _ not _ appreciate.

It did not matter, he would not see the man again. That was certain.

It was not certain.

He knew it wasn’t certain when he found himself face-to-face with the mystery cowboy the following week, after rounding the corner while leaving the breakroom. He was on his way back to his desk after lunch and ended up slamming straight into the man’s (hard, muscular, delightful) stupid chest and almost dropping his cup of green tea. The oaf had reached out a hand to steady him, the other clutching a red, dented tool box. Hanzo immediately shrugged off the appendage and stepped back, clutching the paper cup and tilting his head up to stare up at amber eyes that twinkled at him with amusement. The sneer that curled his lips was arguably unavoidable.

The cowboy reached a hand up and tipped his hat, a Southern hospitality that Hanzo had only seen in bad Western movies, and that handsome smile creased his face once more, “sorry darlin’, seems like we keep bumpin’ into each other,” he winked, Hanzo physically recoiled, attempting to ignore the sudden skip of his heart at the sight. He covered up what was likely the reddening of his cheeks by taking a long sip of his bitter tea, the heat of which almost burnt his tongue, though it was something he could blame the color of his cheeks on, which is exactly what he needed. The cowboy arched one bushy brown eyebrow, that smile quirking at one of the corners of his mouth, and plowed on, oblivious to Hanzo’s embarrassment, “now, seems like we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot last week. I apologize dearly for my behavior. Name’s Jesse McCree,” that wink made itself present again and suddenly there was no tea left in Hanzo’s cup, as he downed the rest of it quickly, “I’m the building’s new facilities guy, here to fix this and that. Lemme know if you have any trouble with anything, darlin’, and I’ll be there in an instant.”

Hanzo didn’t deign the man’s introduction with much of a response other than a jerky nod before he backpedaled and scurried off to his cubicle, pretending he didn’t hear the soft chuckle behind him as he made his escape. What the fuck. Facilities? Since when did they have facilities? Okay, they’d always had facilities, but, since when did they  _ need _ a facilities individual to fix things? They could handle things on their own, right?

Hanzo suddenly remembers when the copier machine broke last month and Genji had said he “could fix it better than before”, then proceeded to leave the office drenched in ink and various other fluids, with the copier so broken that upper management had to replace it. He begrudgingly has to admit to himself that,  _ yes _ , they did need an individual that could repair things around the office, although it really didn’t need to be a handsome cowboy that looked like he could fulfill Hanzo’s one Brokeback Mountain fantasy from years back. It had only happened  _ one time _ , honestly. Okay, maybe a few times. But it was years ago! Well, wait, he takes that back, he did dream about it last  _ week _ after seeing the cowboy the first time. Hanzo groans and drops his head into his hands where he sits in front of his computer, a stack of files on his left hand side that needed to be documented, organized, and put away.

Whatever. He could deal with this. It wasn’t like he’d see the other man at any point other than in passing anyways. Things rarely broke in the office so he’d likely only see the man occasionally throughout the month. Nothing he couldn’t handle.

Lo and behold, Hanzo was wrong on both accounts.

Turns out the cowboy would be in the office every day, Monday through Friday, to keep everything in working order. McCree had taken to searching Hanzo out to say hello on the days he was in the office, even going so far as to pass by his cubicle in the morning with a grin, a wink, and a tip of his hat. Hanzo wanted to tear his hair out every time, his heart skipping a beat with every, “howdy,” drawled his way. And, what was worse, was the cowboys infuriating ability to become friends with damn near everyone in the office.

During one week, he’d sought to search out Amelie and complain to her about the cowboy and his disgustingly handsome face, only to find her engaged in conversation with the facilities manager in the break room, an uncharacteristic smile on her face. One that Hanzo was usually only privy to. He’d tried to backpedal away from the room, but was too late, as Amelie’s sharp gaze shifted from Jesse over to him, a knowing glint in her eyes. The damn bitch had called out to him, and McCree turned with that same amused look he’d had the second time he’d bumped into Hanzo, and he’d been roped into a conversation that he really did not want to be a part of. Not that he’d remembered much of it, too (infatuated by) distracted by that deep timbre and honeyed drawl to really notice what had been discussed. Something about preferred drinks perhaps? Hobbies? He’d zoned out, thinking once more of Brokeback Mountain and ruggedly handsome cowboys. All he remembered was when McCree had bid them goodbye and sauntered out of the break room, spurs jingling the whole time, and Amelie had smacked him upside the head with a well-manicured hand.

“What the  _ fuck _ ,” Hanzo hissed, pressing a hand against the tender spot on the back of his head and turning a venomous glare over to his French friend, who was inspecting her royal violet nails with feigned interest, as if she hadn’t just left a welt on Hanzo’s head. She pretended to take interest in the sharpened points for a few moments, leaving Hanzo to seethe silently at her, until she finally let her gaze slide over to him, painted plum lips curling at the corner into a knowing smirk that he recoiled at. 

Amelie reached a hand over and let her claws glide over his jawline, something that had Hanzo’s lips curling in disgust, before she spoke in that heavily accented purr that Hanzo usually appreciated but hated at this moment, “pining is not a good look on you, cherie, you are a grown man. Not a teenage boy.” That smirk was still plastered on her face, knowing, teasing, taunting. Hanzo physically stepped away from his office friend and shook his head, crossing his arms over the silk button-down he wore, denial plastered across his face.

“I am not  _ pining _ , Amelie. Where in my behavior towards this unwelcome cowman have you picked up on  _ pining _ ?” Hanzo sneers in his French friend’s direction, watching her expression shift from amused to deadpan in one smooth motion.

She leaned into his space, arching one groomed eyebrow, and Hanzo leaned away, trying to escape her gaze, to no avail. Amelie reached a manicured finger up to tap his forehead mockingly, rolling her words out of her mouth in a way that made it seem like she was speaking to a child and not a grown man, “I am not stupid, you stared at him without saying a single word for the entirety of our conversation. If that is not a schoolboy crush, then I am straight.” Hanzo pursed his lips and averted his gaze from his French friend’s knowing eyes, glaring at the coffee machine as if it would suddenly spray him with scalding liquid and melt him down to nothing so he wouldn’t have to have this conversation.

Amelie settles back on her heels, out of Hanzo’s face, and begins to inspect her nails again, flicking the acrylics together while she smirks. He doesn’t like that look, not in the slightest, and especially does not like it when she opens her mouth again, saying things he does not want to hear, “if you’d like my help, cherie, all you must do is ask.” Her eyes slide over to him again, head cocked in question, that smile making it seem like she was doing him a favor by even offering.

He grits his teeth, shakes his head, spitting back at her, “I do not have a  _ crush _ on a  _ cowboy _ ,” and storms out of the break room, back towards his cubicle. Damn Amelie and her jumping to conclusions. Hanzo Shimada did not have a crush, he was a grown man and he did  _ not _ develop crushes, no matter what French coworkers might think. He found him  _ attractive _ , sure, but anyone with eyes would find him attractive, it did not mean that he had a crush on him.

Hanzo dreams of Brokeback Mountain that night, of being splayed out beneath that hulking mass of a man, being subjected to his wandering hands and his ridiculously hot drawl. He dreams of being pulled back to rest against the man’s hips, of feeling delightfully full, and being fucked hard enough to walk funny the following morning.

He calls out sick the following day, willing to use some of his precious paid time off to wallow in his disgusting fantasies at home, away from prying eyes.

Of course, calling out means that people would be worried about him. And by people, he meant his brother and his two friends, both of which texted him to inquire about his well-being, only one of which he replied to. Satya’s, “are you doing well?” text was much more appreciated than Amelie’s, “hiding from the cowboy will not make you want him less,” message. Though both texts were wholly better than the incessant knocking at his door that he opened begrudgingly to find his brother behind, a mischievous look on his young face.

“Anija, I have come because you did not show up to work today,” Genji said, a lilt to his voice that Hanzo did  _ not _ like. Hanzo almost shut the door on him, not wanting to put up with the obnoxious younger Shimada  _ and _ his gay cowboy fetish in one day, though the thought had barely crossed his mind when Genji was suddenly in his apartment, toeing off his polished and expensive Oxfords in the entryway before sliding along the hardwood floors towards the kitchen, a plastic bag in hand.

Hanzo grit his teeth, eyes slipping shut to combat the headache that would likely make itself present once his brother started speaking.

“Anija, I have brought soup for you since you are not feeling well, let your favorite little brother take care of you,” Genji sing-songed at him, already rifling loudly through his pantry for a saucepan so he could heat up the soup he’d supposedly brought. Soup that Hanzo probably didn’t even like, nor that he needed. He wasn’t sick, at least not physically. Did a cowboy fetish make someone sick mentally? There were far worse things than cowboys to be into, to be frank. Genji dropped a pot onto the floor, the metal crashing against the tile almost deafeningly in the otherwise silent apartment. Hanzo presses his fingers against his temples, feeling the tell-tale throbbing start behind his eyes.

Ah, yes, there was that headache. Welcome home, take a seat, you’ll be here a while.

He decided to ignore his brother for the moment, preferring to walk over to his couch and sink into the plush cushions, retrieving his phone from the coffee table and resuming his conversation with Satya, who was giving him the latest office gossip that he was missing out on. Apparently a large German man with a glass eye showed up to the office with a dozen roses and surprised Ana. Satya said she’d never seen the woman so happy, nor seen someone lift another person that easily. She also said that she wanted to never see anyone over the age of fifty makeout ever again. Hanzo chuckled, thumbs flying along the keyboard, tapping out his responses while ignoring his brother in the dining room.

A mistake, really.

Honestly, he shouldn’t have just shut off the television when he heard the knocks at his door. He should have shut down everything, his gaming console included. Not that he was playing any video games, no, he had Netflix up and was watching none other than the source of his fetish in the first place; Brokeback Mountain. And he should have realized that his brother would want to turn something on to watch while cooking, he should have turned off the entire system. Instead, he ignored his brother and the man scooped up the remote, flicked the television on, and gasped at the sight of the two cowboys kissing, paused where they were on screen. The sound was so sudden and out of character that Hanzo looked up to inspect what was going on, fearing that his brother had injured himself while simply trying to reheat soup, and was mortified to find the man looking between the paused movie and where he sat on the couch.

He cursed his pale skin as he felt it heat up, coloring him in shades of rose that he would really rather his brother did not see, as the shock melted away to a wicked grin. Soup left forgotten on the stove, Genji launched himself over the back of the couch and leaned into his brother’s space, leering at him with a glint in his eyes. For the first time in a while, Hanzo felt  _ small _ , wanting to recede into himself and cease existing on this mortal plane. He begged whatever deity was out there to let the couch open up and swallow him whole, seeking mercy from the look his brother was giving him, praying that he wouldn’t open his mouth and accuse him of what Amelie had been accusing him of.

The Gods were merciless.

“Anija,” oh fuck, that sing-song tune was back in his voice, Hanzo wanted to  _ die _ , “I did not know you were into cowboys. What could have brought this on, hmm?” Those brown eyes twinkled at him knowingly. Fuck.

Hanzo balked, the color in his cheeks bleeding out and leaving him as white as a sheet, as he scrambled to save his own skin, “it was simply on the channel I was on--”

Genji’s lips curled into a wider smile, like the cat that had gotten the cream, “this is on Netflix,” he said, reaching a hand out to the coffee table to flick the control stick on the controller, the Netflix menu coming to life on the screen. Hanzo cursed under his breath, shooting a hand out to snatch the controller up and to shut off the movie, and possibly to bash his own head in with the damn thing. It was a blunt object, he could likely kill himself with it, and that seemed like the only way to escape this god-forsaken situation.

Genji, however, was faster, snatching the controller out of his reach and pressing play.

The sounds of heated kissing filled the room, pouring from the speakers on his television, and Hanzo  _ shrieked _ , lunging at Genji in a desperate attempt to get the controller back and shut the  _ fucking movie off _ , why was it so  _ loud _ ? Genji played keep-away, holding the controller above his head as he pressed a sock-clad foot against Hanzo’s chest to keep him pushed away. The elder Shimada grabbed the offending appendage and  _ wrenched _ , flipping his little brother onto the floor and following him down to straddle his chest and snatch the controller away, holding the center button and trying to ignore the sounds of rustling fabric and wet kisses as he shut down the console, leaving the pair of brothers staring at each other in the silent room.

The smell of something burning filled the air.

Genji gasped and shoved Hanzo off of him, scrambling to get up and, after a few failed starts, bolted towards the kitchen, cursing in Japanese the whole time. Hanzo calmly stood, thankful for the distraction, and placed the controller down on the coffee table again, shutting his eyes against the pain blooming behind his eyelids. Fuck, he needed a pot of green tea and a handful of Advil if he was really going to be subjected to his brother’s presence for a second longer. And, of course, Genji had no intention of leaving, as he set about salvaging the pan he’d almost ruined, leaving it to soak with some baking soda and salt to get the worst of the burnt soup off of it. Hanzo had little choice but to perch on the sofa, tucking his sweatpant-covered legs underneath himself, and crossing his sweater-clad arms across his chest, waiting for his little brother to come and confront him like he knew he was going to.

Predictable enough, Genji eventually found a spot on the loveseat perpendicular to the couch, sinking into the royal blue cushion and leaning into the black leather armrest only to leer at his brother with a smirk. Hanzo glared back at him, hoping the look would deter him from asking any questions.

“So, anija, since when did you develop a cowboy fetish?”

Of course it wouldn’t stop him.

Hanzo pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, letting out a long breath to brace himself against the onslaught of questions his brother would levy at him, and grit out, “I do not have a cowboy fetish,” hoping that frequent denial would eventually result in the younger Shimada giving up and  _ leaving him alone _ .

“Do not lie to me brother, I have seen the way you stare at Jesse when you think no one is looking,” Genji quips back, fishing his phone out of his pocket and unlocking it at record speed, “I’m sure he would be delighted to hear about this.”

For the second time that day, Hanzo lunged at his brother, fast enough that the younger Shimada could only squeak as the phone was snatched from his grip and into Hanzo’s hands. They stared at each other for a long moment, neither blinking, as if Genji could not  _ believe _ what just happened, and Hanzo was simply waiting for the other to make a move. Genji flinched towards him, as if he was going to grab at the phone. The elder brother bolted away from Genji, who was scrambling to chase after him, heading down the hall and to his room, where he promptly shut and locked the door. He listened with satisfaction as Genji slammed into the door, the subsequent pained whine something that he couldn’t help but snicker at. He was glad he grabbed Genji’s phone while it was unlocked, it made it easier to simply flip the device over and open up the messaging application.

He brought the phone close to his face and squinted at the screen, searching through the message blocks until his gaze fell on “McCree”, which was right below a block labelled, “Zen <3”, which Hanzo cocked a brow at, that little tidbit of information filed away for interrogation at some point. The most recent text was from McCree himself, a simple, “LOL ;)” and nothing else. Hanzo clicked the message block to pull up the full conversation, ignoring his brother’s whining behind the door, along with the jingling of the doorknob. He scrolled as far up as he could go, to the very beginning of their text adventures, desperately reading through the messages between his brother and the cowboy.

\--------------------------------------McCree (xxx)xxx-xxxx------------------------------------------------

**McCree:** hey, genji, right? 

**_Genji:_ ** _ Helloooo cowboy ;)  _

**McCree:** LOL yeah definitely genji. Ya asked me to text u?

**_Genji:_ ** _ yes! i would like to get to know our new coworker better ;)  _

**McCree:** haha hate to break it to ya but i think i’m a lil ol for ya

**_Genji:_ ** _  oh no not like that!! u are v handsome but i am happily taken sry!  _

**McCree:** LMAO thank goodness WHEW so whats this about then

**_Genji:_ ** _ well i might have an ulterior motive  _

**McCree:** well uh may i ask what motive that might be?

**_Genji:_ ** _ have u perhaps seen a short angry japanese man around the office? wears his hair in a ponytail? has a goatee, looks a lot like me?  _

**McCree:** oh yeah that guy what about him? i get the feelin he dont like me too much :(

**_Genji:_ ** _ nonsense he just has a stick so far up his ass that u can see the end of it when he talks _

**McCree:** holy shit 

**_Genji:_ ** _ he simply needs to go out and have fun. he is actually my brother :D _

**McCree:** yeah? sounds like he does but idk what that has to do with lil ol me :/

**_Genji:_ ** _ perhaps u could help him remove that stick in his ass and replace it with something else? ;) _

**McCree:** whoa partner are you tryna hook me up with ur bro? he put u up to this :0 !?

**_Genji:_ ** _ trust me hanzo would not put me up to this. think of it as me looking out for him! he is far too stressed :( _

**McCree:** but why me of all ppl? :0

**_Genji:_ ** _ call it a hunch but i dont think my brother would be all that opposed to you pursuing him _

**McCree:** well well ill keep that in mind next time he blows me off when i say good morning lol 

**_Genji:_ ** _ give him a chance he’ll open up for u soon enough! and then hell ~open up~ ;)  _

**McCree:** LOL ;)

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hanzo feels the sudden need to chuck this god-forsaken device out of the window of his fourth story apartment, just to watch it crash to the ground in a cluster of broken parts. It would accurately reflect what he wanted to do to his brother right now. Instead, because he didn’t want to kill his brother (even if he was practically seeing red), he threw the phone onto his bed and then himself, pulling one of the many pillows he kept on his bed over his face to muffle the frustrated scream that ripped through him. The doorknob suddenly clicked, and he heard his brother’s triumphant shout, then the telltale creak of the door opening. He barely lets Genji take a single step into the room before he hurls a pillow at him, listening to the younger Shimada’s yelp and then the sound of the pillow connecting with the wall. Missed.

He snatches the phone off the bed and sits up, snarling in Genji’s direction and watching as the man feigns innocence with a blank look on his face. The look changes into one of panic when Hanzo throws the phone at him with as much strength as he could muster. Luckily for him, but unfortunately for Hanzo, Genji caught the phone at the last second, saving it from an early demise. It did not, however, save Genji from an early demise, as Hanzo began stalking over to him, barely bridled fury evident in the set of his jaw.

The younger Shimada was a smart man. Which is why he immediately turned tail and booked it towards the door, with Hanzo hot on his heels. Genji didn’t even stop to put his shoes on, grabbing them on his way out of the door, with Hanzo screaming at him in Japanese. He didn’t bother to chase after him once his little brother was out of the house, instead electing to slam the door shut and lock it before it had to bear the brunt of his weight while he sank down to floor, leaning against it. The knowledge that his brother knew of his odd attraction to the cowboy was disheartening; did that mean that McCree also knew? He was not exactly subtle about his attraction. Though, he had no reason to worry; he was simply attracted. It was not a crush. Not at all. 

Hanzo went to bed early that night to prepare for the work day tomorrow.

He’d resolved himself to not think of the cowboy or to worry about the attraction he had for him. Hanzo told himself this repeatedly, like a mantra in his head, as he moved to sit down at his desk.

And felt the chair crumble beneath him as the floor rushed up to meet him.

Hanzo never cursed in the office. At least, not in English. The rapid, pained Japanese curses that spilled from his lips, however, were an exception to his self-imposed “no cursing” rule. They were nothing short of scathing, his hands gripping the back of his head to comfort what was likely a nasty bump. He didn’t have long to suffer alone, as he heard the quick jingle of spurs in a hurry towards his office, then the sight of leather cowboy boots in front of Hanzo’s face. He begrudgingly lets his eyes wander upwards, along the blue denim, up to the outrageously large belt-buckle, along the taper of his waist and the swell of his chest, up to where he was looking down at Hanzo with worry in those amber eyes.

“Hey sugar, you okay? Heard a crash and came running, seems like you took a tumble,” McCree said and reached a hand out to help Hanzo up. The elder Shimada pressed his hands to his face instead, feeling shame color his cheeks in a vicious red. He had a feeling that he knew who had sabotaged his chair, and he was going to wring the little shit’s neck when he saw him next, and then immediately hang himself afterwards to avoid ever having to be in a situation like this again. His head hurt. McCree made a ‘tsk’ sound, flicking his tongue against his teeth audibly, and then there was suddenly a shadow looming over Hanzo. He parted his fingers to figure out what was going on, staring through the cracks, and up into McCree’s face.

A face that was very close to his.

Hanzo couldn’t wrench his eyes away, as Jesse’s lips unfurled into a wide smile, the other hand falling down to flick his forehead, the skin he touched practically  _ buzzing _ after the contact. He ignored it and closed his fingers, shutting his eyes away from those bemused amber ones. He heard the cowboy sigh, heard the jingle of his spurs, and expected him to walk away and leave him be, to wallow in his own embarrassment. Expectations are just that; expectations. He certainly didn’t  _ expect _ to be hauled up with hands that were big and warm and on his waist as he forcibly picked up off the floor and deposited on his feet. His hands scrabbled to grab onto something while he was yanked up, exposing the rosy tint to his cheeks to prying amber eyes.

McCree’s hands lingered on his waist, holding loosely, but they felt like lead weights attached to his sides with how aware of them Hanzo was. He stared up at McCree with wide eyes, wondering where the fuck this was supposed to go from here, as the cowboy’s grin widened slightly and his hands fell away from his body. The places he’d touched were suddenly cold, so cold, and Hanzo found himself wishing his hands were back on him, hoping his heartbeat would stop echoing in his eardrums, because Jesse could surely hear it with how hard it was beating against the inside of his chest.  _ Not a crush _ , he tried to remind himself, though the internal voice was pathetically small, especially as McCree smiled at him even wider. His heartbeat skipped slightly before resuming its pounding, now at double-time. What the  _ fuck _ .

“Tell me what happened,” Jesse asks smoothly, dropping down into a squat to inspect the chair, that was now lying in pieces on the floor, only the legs of it still intact and standing upright. Hanzo pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, trying to quell the headache that had no right making itself present when it wasn’t even nine o’clock in the morning. He gestured vaguely with one hand, letting out a pained sigh as he tried to collect his thoughts and not focus on the image of Jesse’s smile burned into his eyelids.

“I sat down. It fell apart,” Hanzo answered, tone clipped and strained. His head hurt a lot more than he expected it to, and he just wanted to go home. He gently raised one hand to feel around the back of his head, inspecting it for the swell of the bump that he likely had from the fall. He heard Jesse shift, the telltale jingle of those spurs, and then there was a hand on the back of his head, gently pressing and feeling around with calloused fingers. Hanzo froze, stock still, and stared at Jesse’s worried expression. Once again, what the  _ fuck _ .

His fingers pressed down gently, though it still smarts, and Hanzo can’t help but suck in a small, tense breath. McCree’s eyes flick down to his, teeth worrying his bottom lip, and Hanzo flicks his gaze downwards. A mistake, as his eyes land on those lips, and they part to let his honeyed voice spill out, “aw, darlin’, y’got a knot back here. Musta been a nasty tumble,” he clicked his tongue against his teeth and pulled his hand away, and Hanzo unfroze finally, feeling strangely hot and cold, like ice and fire were mingling in his veins. He refused to look at McCree, eyes averted, and almost sagged in relief as the cowboy muttered something and knelt down to look at the chair once more.

Hanzo pressed himself into the corner of his office, pointedly staring at his little cherry blossom bonsai tree. A useless gift to himself, just a simple piece of decoration, a reminder of the home he and Genji had left behind so many years ago. Beautiful and small, it added so much to the otherwise barren cubicle. He was so distracted by memories painted in picturesque pinks that he didn’t even notice McCree had found the source of the problem until he was waving it in front of Hanzo’s face, that grin creasing his features like usual.

“Here the lil’ devil is; loose screw. Alright darlin’, gimme a tic and I’ll get this thing fixed up in a jiffy,” McCree declared, giving Hanzo a two-fingered salute and vacating the cubicle to, presumably, go get his toolbox. Hanzo blinked, pulled out of his reverie, and stared at the place where McCree had been. Wondering why he was so attracted to him. It had to be more than a stupid Brokeback Mountain obsession, right? He presses his hands to his face, scrubbing at the skin like it would make him come back to his senses.  _ Give me a tic _ , he’d said. Hanzo needed his own ‘tic’ to compose himself, away from McCree.

Green tea was the perfect solution to not only a wounded ego but a pounding head, Hanzo told himself as he brewed a cup in the breakroom. He would not be able to work until his chair was fixed so he might as well take the time to reaffirm that his attraction wasn’t infatuation. Because it did not matter that Jesse McCree was an attractive cowboy with a heart of gold, and that he cared for people regardless of how they treated him, or that his smile was the sun in this dreary office building, and that Hanzo had thought more about him in the past month than he had about anything else, all of those things meant nothing, because he is a grown man and he does not have a  _ crush _ . Or a cowboy fetish. But those are not connected in any way, shape, or form.

Hanzo finishes not one but two cups of green tea before he decides he can head back to his cubicle. Just in time, perhaps, as Jesse is finishing screwing the chair back together again. Hanzo stands, rigid, in the entrance of the cubicle, trying to slow down the rapid beat of his heart as Jesse flicks his eyes up and gives him a loose smile. The cowboy has taken his hat off and left it on the desk and Hanzo has a sick desire to put it on, though he resists because he does  _ not _ have a crush on Jesse McCree and he does  _ not _ need to wear his hat. McCree makes a little triumphant sound from where he’s finally screwed in the thing keeping the entire chair together. He stands, Hanzo hears his knees crack slightly, and watches as Jesse slaps a hand against the back of the chair and, deeming it sturdy enough, turns to Hanzo with a small smile on his face. Hanzo’s heart constricts.

“Your highness,” McCree declares in an awful British accent, sweeping his hands dramatically towards the newly repaired office chair, “your throne is ready.” He peeks at Hanzo from beneath his fringe, bushy eyebrows waggling in his direction. He’s absurd, and silly, and attractive, and Hanzo is forced to face the facts. He can’t hold back the laughter that bubbles up inside of him and spills out of his lips, the sound causing the most sincere and fondest expression of joy to cross Jesse’s features, and the sight of it only reaffirms what Hanzo has been denying for the past month.

He has a crush on a fucking cowboy.

He feels a weight off his shoulders when he finally admits it to himself, though it doesn’t make it any easier to act normally around him. Hanzo panics for a moment, thinking about how he was going to ask him out, or if he should even pursue this, or maybe he should let it  _ die _ maybe he should just  _ die _ , honest to god, that would be easier than dealing with this shit-- Not that he has to worry about it for long, because it seems like McCree was taking Genji’s advice. He fidgeted a bit where he stood, stuffing his hands into his pockets and looking uncharacteristically shy all of a sudden. Hanzo stared, and McCree met his gaze. A slow and shaky smile spread on his lips, soft, sweet. His face felt hot.

“Well, I know this is sudden but, would’ya mind if we, maybe, grabbed a beer after work? My treat?” McCree’s smile fell a bit when his question was met with silence. Hanzo gaped, trying to force his mouth to move and let the words of affirmation come out, but it wouldn’t cooperate. He just. Stared. For long moments, with Hanzo desperately trying to regain control of himself, and with McCree growing increasingly uncomfortable and fidgety. When a full minute had passed without a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’, Jesse sighed, disappointment coloring the sound, and reached over to snatch his hat off the desk. 

“Y’know, I get that you don’t like me, but y’don’t have to give me the silent treatment, ‘m just tryin’ to be friendly,” Jesse muttered as he headed towards the entrance to the cubicle, looking like he was going to shoulder his way past Hanzo. By the grace of the fucking Gods, Hanzo was able to finally say something, forcing the words out and into the air between them, and stopping McCree in his tracks.

“Wait,” he says, far too loudly, nerves affecting what should be an easy confirmation, “I--. It is not that I dislike you, not in the slightest. I was simply… taken by surprise,” he watched as the confusion on McCree’s face melted away into a softer expression, something that spurred him on to keep talking, plowing on while he still had the confidence, “I would love to join you for a drink, Jesse McCree.”

The man in question’s smile spread across his lips, a full and handsome thing that had Hanzo’s breath catching in his throat. He reached over and snatched up a sticky note pad and a pen off of his desk, scrawling something on the yellow paper in quick, scratchy letters. Jesse handed it to Hanzo with a wink, while Hanzo took the pad with his brows furrowed. There, scrawled in barely legible letters, were ten digits and an address. Hanzo’s head whipped up to meet McCree’s mirthful gaze, the cowboy stuffing his hands back into his pockets and rocking back on his heels.

“‘S my number and the address of my favorite bar,” he shrugged, beginning to walk past Hanzo and out of the small cubicle, though he paused when he was close enough to whisper in Hanzo’s ear, in that smoky twang, breath ghosting along the shell of his ear and raising goosebumps along his arms, “meet me at seven?” Hanzo’s voice did not wish to cooperate with him again, as he could only nod jerkily in response. Jesse chuckled and left Hanzo blushing furiously and staring at the pad of paper in his hands, willing his heart to cease its incessant thumping and his skin to stop feeling like molten lava. When he finally composed himself enough to start working, almost ten minutes had passed. The rest of the day passed just as slowly, dragging on, closer and closer to when he was supposed to clock out, and seven o’clock had never been so far away.

When he left the office at 4:30, he raced home to change out of his work clothes and into something more suitable. After raiding his closet and deeming all his choices unsuitable, he resorted to doing what he really was trying to avoid doing.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and called Amelie.

She picked up on the third ring, sounding amused and haughty, even through the slight static of the phone, “bonjour cherie, are you calling because you need assistance with the cowboy?” Hanzo cursed under his breath in Japanese, wondering why exactly she knew about it already, and when she had access to that knowledge. Amelie made a clicking sound at his curse, the annoyance evident in the tone of it, although she likely did not understand the word.

“Yes,” he seethed out, even though he had no desire to admit that he did need help, “I am going to meet him at a bar tonight and I need help with my outfit.” It was already a little past five and Hanzo had no idea where the bar  _ was _ , so he wanted to leave no later than half past six. Amelie sucked in a breath and, with a clipped, “I’ll be there in an instant,” hung up on Hanzo. He knew that she would be able to help; the damn woman was excellent with all things fashion, even if she was a menace most of the time. The bane of his existence. Probably the closest friend he’s had in years.

When Amelie arrived, she immediately got to work, raiding Hanzo’s closet and somehow producing an outfit that she guaranteed would impress Jesse. The slacks she pulled out were a little snug around his hips and along the curve of his ass, something that Hanzo complained about until Amelie gave him a pointed look and threw a bottle of lubricant at him. He flushed with realization and nodded, quieting down finally as he pulled on the equally fitted shirt that she tossed at him; a short-sleeved, royal blue button-down that hugged the curvature of his biceps and was snug enough that he left the top few buttons undone (just to not choke himself, not to show off the cleavage that his ample pectoral muscles gave him. He worried for a moment about exposing the intricate dragon tattoo that weaved down his arm, but Amelie assured him it would likely drive the cowboy wild. Hanzo only hoped so, as he slid a nice pair of dress shoes on and shoved his wallet, phone, and keys into his pockets (he leaves the lube; he is not expecting sex from this). As an afterthought, he sprayed himself with a hint of musky cologne, which his French friend nodded approvingly at. It was almost half-past six by the time they were done sprucing him up.

Amelie made him promise that he’d message her later on with a status report and bid him adieu at his car, while she stalked over to her own vehicle. He slid into the driver’s seat, inspecting his hair in the mirror, before punching the address in on his phone and starting up the map. Only a fifteen minute drive. He would make it with plenty of time to spare. The drive, however, seemed to take forever, like every light was a longer wait than the last. When he finally parked in front of a surprisingly classy establishment, the time read 6:50. He could afford a few minutes to psyche himself up, he thought, as he pulled the mirror down and began to inspect his features. He looked fine, really, and Amelie’s fashion choices were excellent, so he wasn’t worried on that front. More than anything, he was worried about being able to act normally around Jesse. He was not a subtle man, especially about romantic prospects, and he was sure that, even without his brother’s meddling, that McCree already knew that he was attracted to him. Hanzo clicks his tongue against his teeth, hoping there was enough liquor in the bar to loosen his tongue and give him some liquid courage. He felt he’d need it if he wanted to impress Jesse.

Five minutes to seven, he left his car and walked briskly over to the door of the bar, though he slowed his pace as he reached the entrance. He did not want to seem overly zealous. Hanzo pushed open the heavy wood door, revealing the dimly lit interior. There were a handful of people around, not a lot, and the bartender gave him a nod when he walked in. Hanzo stood uncomfortably in the entryway, glancing around for McCree. His eyes finally settled on the man sitting on a stool in the corner, nursing a near empty tumbler of amber liquid and looking at his watch. He was dressed as he was before, and Hanzo suddenly felt silly for going home and changing like he had.

He screwed up his courage and attempted to saunter over to Jesse, though he gave up on that rather quickly when he realized the cowboy hadn’t noticed him yet. As he approached, he watched McCree shift and pull his phone out of his pocket, unlocking it and staring at the blank  notification screen. He visibly sighed, broad shoulders shuddering with the movement, which Hanzo furrowed his brows at. With a start, he realized he’d never texted McCree to let him know he was coming. The man probably thought he was going to blow him off.

Hanzo reached a hand out and tapped McCree on one plaid-covered shoulder, watching the man jump and whip his head around to look at him. The surprised expression he wore melted away into a smile as he realized who it was, shifting his whole body so he could look at Hanzo. He reached a hand up and tipped his hat, the gesture combined with his usual wink, and Hanzo couldn’t help but smile back at him, heart skipping a beat. This was already better than usual.

“Is this seat taken?” Hanzo asks, a coy smile on his face. McCree looks stunned for a moment, like he wasn’t expecting this kind of loose flirting, or, perhaps, for Hanzo to even show at all, before it morphs into a wicked grin, one bushy brow cocked in Hanzo’s direction.

“Surprisingly enough, sugar, it is not. Why don’t you take a seat there and keep me company for a moment or three?” He waggles his eyebrows at Hanzo, drawing a soft laugh from him, before he shifts to pull himself onto the stool and situate himself properly. Once he’s seated, he turns to face McCree and catches the man’s eyes on his arm, dragging down the appendage and drinking in the sight of the dragon winding through clouds and thunderbolts. His mouth is hanging open slightly. Hanzo finds his chest warming slightly at the thought that he might have a similar effect on McCree that the cowboy had on him. He snaps his fingers in McCree’s direction, delighting in the way his head jerks and he focuses on his face, looking like a guilty dog, caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing. 

“My eyes are here, McCree,” Hanzo teases and Jesse flushes, his cheeks darkening from their normal caramel to a ruddy red. He likes the look of it coloring his skin. McCree is quick to quip back though, and Hanzo is surprised by his honesty when he says, “sorry darlin’, was just admiring the view.” Now it was his turn to blush, Jesse grinning now, a cat that had gotten the cream. Hanzo shakes his head and turns to hail the bartender over, eager for something to burn in the pit of his stomach, other than the low arousal that coils within him whenever he is around McCree.

He inquires about sake, finds the bartender has none, and settles on ordering a fine whiskey, for both himself and McCree. The cowboy clicks his tongue at Hanzo, shaking his head as he scoots a little closer to him, their elbows brushing where they rest on the granite countertop. “Thought this was supposed to be my treat, Hanzo,” Jesse purrs, the sound sending shivers up Hanzo’s spine. The way he said his name, like a prayer, in that sinful tone, was enough to start a small fire in his lower belly.

“Just because I am ordering does not mean I am paying,” Hanzo quips back, taking a slow drink of the smooth liquor placed in front of him. It serves to fan the flames in his abdomen. McCree whistles low next to him, eyebrows raised in his direction.

“Well, aren’t you a sassy one?”

“That is what some people call me,” Hanzo muses, turning to look at Jesse with the taste of whiskey on his tongue spurring him one, untwisting the muscle and changing it from lead to silver. He thinks it has something to do with the amber liquid, for one, and the lack of a work setting. Something about having to be professional made him nervous enough that the presence of the attractive cowboy only left him tongue-tied and blushing.

“Better than people callin’ you an asshole,” McCree shoots back, holding the glass to his lips and taking a long drag. His Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. Hanzo desires to feel it under his teeth and tongue. He unconciously licks his lips, tasting the liquor, heady and smooth. It settles in his stomach, hot, heavy, insistent, like the arousal that comes with it when Jesse turns to him and cocks a brow, lips pulled into a smirk, self-satisfied.

“That is also what some people call me,” Hanzo purrs, leaning a bit closer to McCree, their biceps pressed together. Jesse whistles again, soft and low, his eyes darting down to the other’s lips and back up again, as if he wouldn’t notice. Hanzo locks eyes with him, smirk spreading across his lips slowly, before he pulls back from the other’s warmth to swallow down more liquid fire. He can feel McCree’s eyes on him. He wonders how many times those eyes have been on him without him noticing them. Because this is much more than simply following Genji’s advice, he must have been watching him since the very first day. Where Hanzo had been pining from afar, Jesse had been trying to broach his hardened exterior and flirt with him. Very openly, apparently, and Hanzo had just blown him off in his denial.

He won’t be making that mistake again anytime soon.

Hanzo reaches his hand up to hail the bartender down again, eager for another drink, and McCree inches closer so they are back to being pressed together. The warmth of his bicep radiates through Hanzo. Oh god, does he appreciate it, even with the layer of McCree’s plaid shirt keeping them from being pressed skin to skin. When the bartender walks back over for their second order, McCree cuts Hanzo off before he can order.

“We’ll take two shots of tequila each and the check,” McCree says, to which the bartender nods and walks away to fill their order. Hanzo turns an inquisitive eye on McCree, to which he gets a wolfish grin back. He doesn’t need to voice the question of  _ why _ , because Jesse elects to answer it without prompting, “I’ve got a mighty fine brew back at my place; why don’t we go somewhere a lil’ more private, darlin’?”

Hanzo’s eyes widen slightly at the insinuation. He regrets not bringing the lubricant, but he suspects that McCree is more than prepared for anything that may transpire while they’re somewhere a ‘little more private’.

He finds himself agreeing without a second thought.

It turns out that Jesse only lives a few blocks down, close enough to walk to, and, with the evening sun almost completely submerged below the horizon, Hanzo figures it is a nice enough night to walk. It’s companionable, the way they banter back and forth. Jesse McCree is sharp-witted, clever, and silly, and insufferably handsome. Hanzo finds the tequila that bit at his taste buds to spur on the sudden silver tongue he’d developed, being able to quip back quickly and without his tongue tangling on itself. The walk to McCree’s apartment is almost too short, and Hanzo mourns the loss of their flow as they take the elevator up to the floor that Jesse was on.

He expected more cowboy paraphernalia, that is to be certain. When McCree unlocked the door and revealed a sleek interior of glass and polished granite tile, and hardwood floors, Hanzo was undeniably stunned. He’d gotten it into his head that McCree would have decorated the entire place like the inside of a bar in Texas. Not to say that there was a lack of cowboy things around the room, there was just far less of it than Hanzo expected.

When the door shut (and locked, Hanzo noted), he turned to look at McCree, wondering if there truly was a brew that he wanted Hanzo to try, or if this had just been a ploy to get him home. McCree was stood by the door, watching him, a lazy smile on his face. Lazy, yet his eyes were sharp, dragging down his form, drinking in the sight of him. Hanzo suddenly felt like he was lured into a trap with the big bad wolf. He mustered up enough courage to smile back, trying to convey that Jesse was not the only one with teeth. 

McCree walked past him, those spurs on his boots jingling in the quiet apartment, and Hanzo followed him into the kitchen area. McCree gestured to a high stool at the bar section of the kitchen, saying, “take a seat,” while he sauntered over to the kitchen and fished out two beers. Hanzo has never been one for the barley flavor of beer, but he figured he should be polite, especially when his host popped the cap off of both of them and handed him one. They clicked the long necks of their sweating bottles together, Hanzo’s eyes on McCree’s as he placed the lip of the bottle against his own lips, and took a long, slow drink. It was a strong brew, with an undertone of honey in the flavor, more like mead than beer. Hanzo found he liked it, especially when it settled in his stomach to mingle with the other liquors he’d imbibed. Jesse did the same, draining a good amount of the bottle before he placed it off to the side. His eyes looked hungry.

“So, Hanzo, got a question for you,” McCree drawled, slow, saccharine, lilting tone washing over Hanzo in a wave that crashed through him internally. Hanzo nodded, making an inquisitive hum in the back of his throat as he took another swig of alcohol, letting it settle into his tongue before he swallowed it down. McCree traced one finger along the granite of the bar, eyes still on Hanzo’s, “I heard from a lil’ birdy that you got yourself a, what did he call it… Oh, right,” he paused for a moment, leaning across the bar, and Hanzo leaned forward reactively, “a cowboy fetish.”

Hanzo had never gotten so red, so fast. One moment, his face was slightly awash with pink, an effect of the alcohol he’d swallowed down, and, the next, his cheeks and his neck  _ and _ his chest were all awash in a vibrant rose-colored hue, while he physically recoiled away from Jesse. The man in question suddenly erupted into laughter, head thrown back as he guffawed loudly into the empty apartment. Hanzo glowered at him, taking a long drink as McCree came down from his giggly high.  _ Bastard child _ , Hanzo thought angrily, trying to determine how he could get away with fratricide. His thoughts didn’t linger on that for long, as McCree reached a hand out and ran his calloused fingers along Hanzo’s jawline. The touch, however brief, had Hanzo leaning forward, unaware of his own movements. Jesse’s eyes twinkled with mirth.

“Oh, darlin’, don’t be so embarrassed, we all got our kinks,” he purrs at him, tone velvetine, “like I, for one, particularly am fond of haughty Asian men that could cut me with their jawline,” his fingers strayed from his jaw around to his chin, thumb and forefinger gripping him tightly and dragging him forward, while Hanzo’s breath caught in his throat and his hands gripped the granite countertop as hard as he could, “with pretty lips that a fella has only ever dreamed of kissing,” his voice has dropped down an octave, low and dangerous, and that thumb drags along Hanzo’s lower lip, “say, darlin’, could you be Mr. Sandman for me, and make my dreams come true?” He waggles his eyebrows in Hanzo’s direction, a silly expression that doesn’t match his tone, nor his words, but it’s a way out, if, for some reason, Hanzo did not want Jesse.

Oh god, did he  _ want _ Jesse.

“You never had to ask,” Hanzo growls out, abandoning his bottle off to the side in favor of reaching forward and gripping Jesse’s stubble-covered cheeks, to haul him forward into an intense kiss. Their lips mash together, rough and the exact opposite of graceful, but McCree takes it in stride, his hand snaking around to thread through Hanzo’s hair and to twist him until their lips slotted together nicely. Jesse’s tongue sweeps along the seam of Hanzo’s lips, asking for entrance that he could have easily taken.  _ What a gentleman, _ Hanzo thinks, parting his lips for the other to slide his tongue into.

The first press of their tongues is  _ electrifying _ , shooting up Hanzo’s spine like a livewire. He makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, itching to get closer, but the granite countertop is digging into his chest as he pushes forward. McCree’s noise of discontent is echoed by Hanzo when they both realize they have to stop kissing to get closer. Jesse takes his time detangling his mouth from Hanzo’s, teasing the back of the shorter man’s teeth with the tip of his tongue, catching his bottom lip between his teeth, before finally parting from him with an audible ‘pop’. Hanzo sees a line of spit that connects their lips, and the sight is ridiculously arousing for some odd reason.

“Darlin’,” McCree breathes, pulling away and swiftly walking around the counter. Hanzo twists on the barstool to continue facing him, watching that hungry expression as he rounds on him, while he braces his hands on the countertop behind him, his pulse jumping in excitement. He spreads his legs for Jesse to settle between, letting him slot himself into the spot while those big hands settle on his waist. Hanzo’s breathing quickens slightly, hitching while he tilts his head up to look at McCree, inviting him in. The cowboy doesn’t accept the invitation, not yet. He pauses, leaning in close enough that his words brush against Hanzo’s quivering lips, “y’know I’ve been chasin’ you since I first saw you, right? Yer a sight for the sorest of eyes, sugar, and these peepers are mighty tired.”

Hanzo cannot help but laugh, his lips parting in a wide smile at the word ‘peepers’. The cowboy jargon was hilarious, honestly, even with McCree flirting so openly with him. His smile is met by Jesse’s own, those amber eyes (flecked with gold that he can see up close,  _ gorgeous _ ) twinkling with warmth. Hanzo winds his arms around McCree’s neck, their laughter dying down the longer they stare at each other, waiting. Biding their time. Seeing who would move first.

McCree’s hands twitch on Hanzo’s hips. He breathes out a little longer than necessary. His irises are swallowed up by his rapidly widening pupils. Blown. Hungry.

Hanzo is sure he looks no better.

He responds by making a desperate noise, turning his head so their lips meet once again, his arms tightening around the other’s shoulders. McCree doesn’t have to ask for permission this time, Hanzo’s mouth is already open before they even meet. His brain short-circuits as their tongues meet in the middle, sloppy, but deliciously hot. McCree’s hands slide along the taper of his waist to the swell of his ass in the tightly-fitted slacks that Amelie had clothed him in. McCree’s hands are suddenly in Hanzo’s hair, pulling the ponytail loose, the strands falling to frame his face. Hanzo tangles his fingers in the other’s oaken locks, mussing the already messy strands, while he pulls him as close as he can get, legs hooking around the other’s soft hips. Jesse’s subsequent noise of delight is something that Hanzo eagerly swallows down, guiding the other’s tongue into his mouth to play.

He drags his teeth along McCree’s tongue, while the man in question struggles to fit his hands into the slacks, to paw at his ass. Hanzo pulls away with a nip to the other’s lips, breathing stuttered while he tries to find coherency, Jesse having given up on sliding his hands into his slacks, and was now just kneading the globes through two layers of fabric. A nice sensation, albeit a muted one. Jesse abandons his lips in pursuit of other places to kiss, as his lips drag along his jaw and down the pale expanse of his neck. Hanzo had been desperately chasing coherent words when McCree decided that the spot just below his ear was the perfect place to kiss and bite. He knows it will leave a mark, but Hanzo figures it does not matter, not when the actions of those teeth and that tongue are shooting heat through his veins down to pool in the pit of his stomach. The already-tight slacks strain with his erection pressing insistently at the front of his pants.

“Fuck, sugar,” Hanzo feels more than hears McCree say against what was likely a red and purple mark below his jaw, “you taste so good, sound so pretty,” his hands squeeze, Hanzo’s hips stutter forward, seeking the sweet release of friction, “react so  _ well _ , yer so sensitive, didn’t expect this,” he drags his lips down to the junction of Hanzo’s neck and shoulder, while the shorter man claws at his back, breathing labored, “but damn if it isn’t the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. Wanna  _ ravish _ you, Hanzo, mess you up real good, inside and out.”

Hanzo manages to find his breath and his words again, fingers finding their way back into Jesse’s (surprisingly soft) hair, where he winds the strands around his digits and yanks the man back forcefully. The cowboy lets out a grunt of pain, eyes on Hanzo’s with a hint of confusion in his irises. He leans forward, biting at McCree’s tan neck with a needy growl. He feels the other man’s pulse jump under his lips, and he delights in the hitch of his breath that he hears.

“Do not,” Hanzo snarls, his mouth dragging up the other’s stubbly neck to his ear, “tease me, Jesse McCree,” he bites down on the lobe, those hands on his ass tightening their hold and dragging him forward, “stop telling me what you are going to do,” he pulls back enough that they can lock eyes, ravenous gazes fixed on each other, “and just  _ do it _ .”

Jesse moves to grab at his Stetson and leave it on the counter and Hanzo is quick to stop him, grabbing at his hands and ceasing the movement. The look of confusion levied at him is endearing. Hanzo leans forward, into the cowboy’s space, and lets his eyes lock onto the other’s lips, staring unabashedly. He doesn’t need to ask the question because the shorter man is already speaking his request against those lips, “leave the cowboy hat on.”

McCree growls in response, pulling them flush against each other and lifting Hanzo off of the bar stool. He winds his arms around the other’s neck and his legs around the other’s hips, clinging for dear life as the cowboy carries him down the hall and presumably, towards his bedroom. Hanzo makes the most of the trip by kissing and sucking at McCree’s neck, littering the tan skin with marks, a wholly possessive thing rearing its head inside of him. Even though he is not sure how this night will end, he hopes that it might result in a tentative relationship or, at the very least, a friends with benefits situation. Regardless, he plans on indulging himself in the cowboy tonight, living out that horrendous fantasy that has been haunting him daily for a little over a month now.

He finds himself pressed against a wall, right next to an open door, with Jesse pulling him roughly against his hips, lips finding purchase on his neck.. Hanzo tilts his head back, gasping, as he feels the other’s thick length press against him, the hardness of it evident even through the layers of fabric that separate them. Jesse keeps him propped up, pulling away from where he was sucking on his neck, leaving a smattering of scarlet marks, while his fingers deftly undo the buttons on Hanzo’s shirt. He lets him, eager for some skin on skin contact, and cooperates as Jesse roughly shoves the garment back to expose his heaving chest. Hanzo pulls the shirt off, struggling slightly, before he tosses it over Jesse’s shoulder and yanks him back in for a rough kiss. His hands drift down from McCree’s jaw, which was falling open to allow for messy, wet kisses, to give his shirt the same treatment as his own. He lets his fingers linger on the divots of his abdomen, feeling the coarse hair that dusts his chest, while the buttons fall away one by one, until the garment is open and he can splay his hands on the other’s pectoral muscles. They jump under his touch, reacting to the slight chill of his hands that he’s never quite been able to get rid of. He winds his arms around Jesse as the other relinquishes his hold on Hanzo’s thighs to roughly pull the plaid shirt off and toss it in a random direction, more concerned with getting his hands back on Hanzo than where his shirt was landing.

Jesse hauls Hanzo closer, off of the wall and through the open door next to them. Hanzo is too concerned with trying to swallow down Jesse’s tongue to notice they’ve changed positions until they both fall onto the bed, the mattress groaning under their combined weight. Jesse pushes himself up onto his forearms, while Hanzo chases his mouth, leaning up to try and keep their lips locked for as long as he can. When McCree moves out of the way, Hanzo cannot fight back the pout that crosses his features, an expression that Jesse chuckles at, low and sultry. It rolls over Hanzo in a wave that he shivers at.

“Don’t make that face at me, sugar,” Jesse drawls, shifting on top of Hanzo so that their hips are slotted together, “I’m not goin’ nowhere,” he rolls his hips experimentally, grinding the thickness in his blue jeans against the hardness in Hanzo’s black slacks, “just wanna watch you come undone, hear those pretty noises I’ve been swallowing for the past twenty minutes.” Hanzo’s eyes flutter shut, his hands coming up to rest on Jesse’s lower back as his hips stutter while trying to grind against Jesse in kind. The cowboy’s words die on his tongue in a stuttered moan, the friction a welcome release of pressure for the both of them. Hanzo forces his eyes to open so he can stare up at McCree, framed by the lights on above them, his mouth hanging open while he rutted shamelessly on Hanzo. His eyes were unfocused, already losing himself to the pleasure, but, god, it could be so much better if they just got rid of the layers between them.

Hanzo tightens his grip on the other, ceases rolling his hips back, and waits for McCree to let out a disappointed whine, until he speaks. “Jesse,” he breathes out, watching those dilated pupils focus on him, zeroed in on the source of his pleasure, “these… need to go,” Hanzo’s hands tug at the belt buckles on the back of Jesse’s jeans, “I want to feel you, cowboy.” Jesse nods jerkily and shifts back to stand in front of the bed. Hanzo moves to prop himself up on his forearms, greedily drinking in the sight of the muscular man in front of him. The man quickly undoes his belt and throws it off to the side before popping the button on his jeans and roughly shoving the garment down, along with his boxers. Hanzo stares at the thick length protruding from Jesse’s groin, at the way it curves up into the air, at the set of piercings climbing up the shaft that glint in the light. His mouth goes slightly dry at the thought of it spreading him open and fucking into him. He feels himself twitch in his slacks. He moves quickly to undo the fasteners and get the suffocating pants off of him, throwing them off to the side just as Jesse moved to straddle him again.

And tripped over the jeans that were on the floor, smacking directly into the bed between Hanzo’s spread legs, dangerously close to Hanzo’s groin.

They stayed quiet for long moments, one with his head down in the comforter on the bed, and the other propped up and staring at the cowboy, whose hat was askew on his head, half-off from the impact. The silence dragged on until Hanzo couldn’t take it anymore. He started laughing, trying to stifle his giggles, and failing spectacularly. McCree tilted his head up to look at Hanzo, a grin on his face. He reached up and adjusted his hat, shoulders shaking with quiet laughs, that punctuated his attempted jibe, “now, don’t you laugh at me, Hanzo, I’ll make you regret that!” Jesse moves to shuffle forward, wrapping his arms around the smaller man’s waist, and Hanzo can’t help the gasping laugh that rocks his body when the cowboy rubs his scruffy face into his abdomen. The laughter abruptly cuts off and morphs into a moan when Jesse’s hand finds one perked nipple and his mouth lands on the other.

“Told ya I’d make you regret it,” Jesse growls against his chest, and, suddenly, his teeth are tugging at Hanzo’s nipple, and he’s wrenching a wet gasp from Hanzo’s throat. He winds his fingers through the cowboy’s tawny locks, panting softly as the man teases his sensitive pectorals with a practiced set of lips, teeth, and tongue. His cock gives an interested twitch when McCree shifts and brushes his abdomen against the straining hardness. Jesse makes an amused sound and parts from Hanzo’s chest, shifting back to eye the modest erection between Hanzo’s legs. His smirk is absolutely predatory.

Hanzo grabs Jesse’s chin with his thumb and forefinger before the man can descend upon him like he knows he wants to, halting the cowboy’s movements. Those amber eyes flick up to him, one brow cocked, a question unsaid. He smirks down at him, reflecting that predatory grin, and releases his chin to press his index finger against the cowboy’s nose. “Lubricant,” he demands, watching the man’s eyes widen. Jesse nods jerkily and shoves off of the bed, more careful in his movements as he grabs a half-full bottle out of the nightstand. He does not fall on the bed this time, as he crawls back onto it, eyes hungrily boring into Hanzo. He beckons him forward, legs spreading wider, and Jesse moves to encompass the space.

Hanzo bites his lip, loving the way that cowboy hat looks between his legs. Something straight out of his wettest dreams. Jesse moves to his thickness, getting so close, but pauses before his lips can settle on the velveteen skin. He makes a pathetic noise in the back of his throat, canting his hips forward, though Jesse moves out of the way of it. He tilts his head up, peering up at Hanzo from under his fringe, a curious look in his eyes. “How do you want me, Hanzo?” Jesse asks, his hands gliding up to grip Hanzo’s thighs, his thumbs rubbing twin circles into his inner thighs. The heat and the motion is equal parts comforting and arousing.

“Always,” he breathes out without thinking. The thumbs soothing his skin stutter in their motions. Jesse’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, eyes widening, and Hanzo realizes what he’s said. He mentally backpedals, cursing himself, as Jesse goes to open his mouth. He cuts him off before he can speak, trying to divert his attention from what he said to the matter at hand, “I-I mean,” he spreads his legs further and lifts up his hips, McCree’s eyes snapping down to the enticing sight he was demonstrating, “fuck me, Jesse McCree.”

The cowboy, apparently having forgotten about Hanzo’s embarrassing admission, nods. He moves forward like a man possessed, lips pressing to the tip of the shorter man’s modest prick. Hanzo shudders, falling back onto his forearms and tipping his head back. One of McCree’s hands leave his thigh and gropes around on the sheet as his tongue flicks against Hanzo’s drooling slit. The distant sound of a pop sounds in his ears, though he can’t be damned to think about it, what with Jesse’s hot mouth enveloping the head of his cock. He shallowly thrusts his hips upward, McCree’s other hand curving around his hip to grab at one of his perky ass cheeks. The calloused fingers knead the plush globe, soothing, arousing, as a slick, thick finger presses against his entrance.

The breath he sucks in whistles through his teeth, while he tries to relax enough for McCree to press into him. It wasn’t like he didn’t  _ just _ have his own fingers up there the previous day, while pretending to be sick at home, but knowing that this was his first time with McCree was enough to make him tense up. Jesse wouldn’t have that, apparently, as he suddenly shoved his head down on Hanzo’s cock, greedily swallowing it down. Hanzo feels the head hit the back of the cowboy’s throat, as he melts beneath that warm mouth, boneless underneath him. Jesse’s finger slips in easily, all the way to the last knuckle.

He makes an amused noise around Hanzo’s cock while he starts to bob his head in long, slow strokes, slipping a second finger into the shorter man’s hole when he finds a lack of resistance. Hanzo can’t do much but rock forward into that wet heat and then back onto his thick digits, mindless in his movements, only chasing after his own pleasure. Jesse starts to hum, pressing the flat of his tongue against Hanzo’s frenum, wrenching a keening noise from the man underneath him. One of Hanzo’s hands settle on Jesse’s head, looking for locks of brown hair and finding the beloved Stetson instead. He snatches it off of the cowboy’s head, much to his indignation, and places it on his own. The heated look that Jesse gives him makes him smirk down at him, though that expression dissolves when the cowboy shoves a third finger in and begins to quickly, roughly piston them in and out of Hanzo’s greedy hole.

Jesse pulls off of Hanzo’s cock with an audible ‘pop’, his breathing hot and heavy on the spit-slicked head. His fingers twist and part and open Hanzo up, dragging the prettiest noises out of his lips, all of which Jesse praises him on, his voice scratchy with sex and smoke, “yeah, baby, you sound real good when yer gettin’ stretched wide,” his accent is heavier, like he can’t control it with his arousal so hot and insistent, and Hanzo whines at the words he speaks, “can’t wait to fuck you, yer so  _ tight _ , I wanna feel you clench around me, wanna fuck you until you can’t remember your own damn name,” Hanzo’s never been one for dirty talk before, but Jesse’s guttural growl and honeyed, whiskey smooth timbre rocks through him to the very core, and he finds himself nodding insistently at the picture he’s painting with his filthy words, “wanna watch you ride me with the hat on, wanna fuck you silly, till you can’t feel yer hips,” his thick fingers curl in the perfect direction and Hanzo falls to the bed, his quivering forearms unable to keep him up as Jesse abuses his prostate with the most devilish digits. The hat falls to the side, forgotten in favor of being able to throw his head to the side and lose himself to Jesse’s skillful hands and lascivious tone, “Hanzo, I’ll paint your insides a pretty white if you let me, oh  _ baby _ ,” he laves his tongue across the shorter man’s cock, along his weeping head, tasting the salty pre-come that covers it, “I’d do anything you asked of me, anything you want.”

Hanzo can’t stand it anymore. His back arches as his fingers tighten their grip on Jesse’s hair, tugging the locks harshly in his mindless pursuit of pleasure. His balls feel tight with impending release, and he’s so close, just a little more,  _ a little more _ . McCree slides his fingers out of Hanzo, much to the smaller man’s chagrin. Hanzo huffs pathetically, canting his hips to try and chase some friction that he desperately needs to find his release. He mumbles incoherently, in a mess of Japanese and English, as he feels McCree shift backwards, away from his slick cock. The air hits his heated, feverish skin, cold in contrast to how the cowboy has been warming him up. Hanzo manages to prop himself up on his forearms, glaring heatedly down at where Jesse is watching him with the softest of looks. He blinks at the sight of him, his red, spit-shiny lips, his blown pupils, and the sweet smile that stretches across his features.

“What are you staring at,” he finds himself asking, letting his foot drag along the other’s side, down to the curve of his ass, where he insistently taps to try and get him to move closer. Jesse chuckles and complies, crawling up Hanzo’s body while the shorter man lowers himself back down to the bed. McCree pauses periodically in his assent to pepper kisses to the skin on display for him; a peck along his abdomen, a gentle nip to his pectorals, a kiss to his bobbing Adam’s apple, a hickey sucked into the skin below his jaw. Hanzo takes all of them with delight, moaning softly and running his hands down the other’s broad back, feeling the muscles flex under his palms. They finally end up face-to-face, with McCree’s craggy nose brushing against the regal slope of Hanzo’s, amber and umber irises boring into one another.

“Hey,” McCree says softly, eyes half-hooded, his lips parting in a grin.

Hanzo can’t help but grin at the silly greeting, as if the cowboy hadn’t just brought him to the brink of orgasm. “Hello,” he responds, stealing a quick peck from the taller man’s smiling mouth, “you never told me what you were staring at.” Despite already knowing the answer, he wants to hear him say it, wants to hear the words spill out of those lips in that molasses voice, slow and thick and just as sweet.

“‘M looking at you,” Jesse finally answers, mumbling the answer into his waiting lips, and Hanzo’s mouth is parting in the widest grin before he can stop himself. McCree brackets Hanzo’s head with his forearms, his hips inching upwards while they move into a smiling kiss. The sweet air between them flares into desire when Jesse’s thickness brushes against Hanzo’s, heated flesh dragging together. His mouth falls open, the whine he makes swallowed by Jesse, and then stifled by his tongue pressing forward. They rock slowly against each other, the friction that Hanzo was seeking earlier finally, blessedly given to him. The piercings that decorate McCree’s appendage feel a bit odd against his cock, though not unpleasant. He finds himself wondering what they would feel like rolling against his insides, dragging along his stretched rim. Hanzo shudders with delight, with desire, and unwillingly parts from Jesse’s lips (and teeth, and tongue), to speak heated, lustful words against the cowboy’s kiss-swollen mouth.

“Jesse,” he moans out, as the cowboy moves from his mouth down the curve of his jaw to suck more hickeys into the pale expanse of his neck, “please, do not tease me any longer,” he wraps his legs around the other’s midsection and yanks him down to grind harder against him, making it explicitly clear what he wants, “I need you inside of me,” the cowboy makes a guttural noise in the back of his throat, as he moves to part, reluctantly, from Hanzo’s marked skin. He settles back onto his haunches, staring down at Hanzo, laid out for him like a feast, and there’s hunger deep in those dark amber eyes. The shorter man shivers with anticipation.

McCree grabs the lubricant and pops it open, pouring a liberal amount onto his palm. His eyes never leave Hanzo’s. He tosses the bottle off to the side with little regard to where it goes, and lets his hand fall to his thick cock, protruding proudly between his legs, curving upward to display the decoration pierced into his shaft. Hanzo lets his eyes fall from Jesse’s amber ones to appreciatively eye his thickness, watching that big hand wrap around it and slick it up, for him. He licks his lips, imagining it pushing into him, spreading him open, the feel of those piercings catching on the rim as they enter him one by one. His cock gives an interested twitch as Jesse grabs one of his legs and lays it over his shoulder, propping him up a bit. Hanzo spreads his legs wider, one hand falling down to grab at one cheek and pull it away, exposing himself to Jesse.

“Damn, darlin’,” Jesse breathes, and Hanzo’s heart gives a little jump at the knowledge that he was working Jesse up just as much as the cowboy was him, “that’s a sight a man could get used to seein’ every day.” Hanzo lets his fingers dig in a bit more, extending one to brush against his hole, which he feels flutter under his fingertip. Jesse makes a high-pitched noise and shifts forward, guiding the slick head of his cock to Hanzo’s waiting entrance. The shorter man bites his lip, heart thudding against his ribcage, as he feels the hot head of it press against his stretched, wet hole.

The initial press forward burns a bit with the stretch. Hanzo hasn’t done this with another person in quite a bit, and his toys are not nearly as thick as Jesse McCree. But the burn does nothing to douse the flames of Hanzo’s arousal, which heats his insides and shows on his skin in ruddy reds that decorate his visage. Rather, it fuels the  _ want _ and the  _ need _ , that has been ever present since he met the damn cowboy. And that need is being fulfilled with every inch that sinks into him, with the first barbell that catches on the rim of his entrance and then rolls in with a bit of finessing. It’s being fulfilled as Jesse sinks further and further inside, pushing slightly faster when Hanzo does not protest, until their hips meet and Jesse bottoms out. 

_ Full _ , so very full, fuller than he’s ever been before. And, god, it feels so good. Better than anyone before, the best he thinks he’s ever had or ever will have. Hanzo doesn’t realize he’s shaking until McCree’s hand rubs soothing circles into his knee, concerned gaze on his face. He closes his mouth, which he hadn’t realized had dropped open, and nods in Jesse’s direction, signaling that he was okay. The man leans forward and grabs something off of the bed next to Hanzo’s head, jostling him slightly, and sits back with the Stetson in hand. He places it on his head and grins down at the shorter man, who is staring up at him with wide eyes, like he couldn’t believe that he was wearing it. With his cheeks burning, he remembers that he asked the cowboy to wear it in the first damn place.

“Giddy-up,” is the only warning he gets before McCree is rolling his hips back, sliding out of him inch by delectable inch, before he thrusts forward. Hanzo rocks with the movement, the bed creaking under their weight, as the man above him sets a steady pace. The drag along his inner walls is delectable, hot and slick, and the full feeling only leaves him for a moment before he’s back to being gloriously filled. McCree switches his angle every few thrusts, searching for the spot that he’d been abusing earlier.

Even without Jesse striking his prostate, the man filled him so well, and the slide of his cock was more than enough to electrify him from the inside out. He rolls back down onto him with every thrust, meeting him in the middle, the lewd slap of skin-on-skin resounding throughout the room. Hanzo adds to the melody with breathy gasps and stuttered moans, as McCree’s grunts and groans fill the room as well. The cacophonous harmony rocks Hanzo to the very core, the pool of arousal inside of him added to with every thrust and every noise.

Though McCree seemed to have promised to fuck him until he couldn’t feel his hips, the pace they were at right now was nothing more than steady and even. Hanzo felt slighted, as if the cowboy thought he couldn’t handle his (admittedly, thick and impressive) cock. He tried to spur him on, by thrusting down harder, by wrapping the leg not on his shoulder around his hips and pulling him closer, but Jesse wasn’t budging. Hanzo grit his teeth, the pleasure nice, but it could be better.

So, so, so much better.

“Stop,” he demands, and Jesse halts immediately, looking confused and a bit scared when he looks up at Hanzo’s face. The shorter man shimmies backward, feeling Jesse slide out of him (the sudden lack of warmth and fullness is, honestly, devastating) and watches as the man scrambles to say something. He won’t have it, as he shoves McCree back with hands on his chest, throwing the man down onto the bed. The cowboy’s confusion is evident in every crease on his visage. Hanzo moves to straddle his hips, feeling the other’s thickness strain against his backside. He snatches the Stetson off of Jesse’s head and places it squarely on his own, grinning down at the confused cowboy while he rises up on his knees to line Jesse up with his hole.

“Let me show you a  _ real _ rodeo, Jesse McCree,” Hanzo purrs, delighting in the way those amber eyes widen at his words, before he rolls his hips downward and takes Jesse inside of him. The stretch, the fullness, the heat; all of it comes rushing back to him, in a feeling that he can only throw his head back and moan unabashedly at. McCree’s hands find his hips, even as Hanzo starts a punishing pace, the big hands settling on his skin and anchoring him to the moment. The shorter man bounces greedily on Jesse’s lap, taking the impressive length as deep as he can before rising up, only to drop back down again. He twists his hips this way and that, angling Jesse as best as he can, searching for the spot that he knows about that will  _ really _ make this so much better.

McCree shifts one way, thrusting upwards, and Hanzo twists the other way, dropping down, and the head of his prick brushes against that perfect bundle of nerves inside of him.

Hanzo throws his head back, a shout ripped from his throat at the sudden electric shock of pleasure that courses through him. Jesse pauses in his thrusts, likely thinking he hurt Hanzo, but the shorter man only braces his hands against McCree’s pectorals and grinds the other’s cock into his prostate. A bead of pre-come drips from Hanzo’s leaking erection into the valleys of Jesse’s abdomen, adding to the sweat that’s already dotting his skin. He doesn’t realize he’s babbling in Japanese until Jesse shifts and tightens his hold on him. The cowboy lifts Hanzo up a bit before pulling him back down, aiming straight for that spot, and wrenching another howl from the shorter man’s lips.

“Hanzo,” Jesse groans, as he starts to roll his hips up, grinding into the other man’s prostate, “baby, you sing so pretty,  _ fuck _ , Han,” the abuse of that bundle of nerves inside of him renders him positively  _ weak _ , as his arms give out and he ends up pressed chest to chest with Jesse. The cowboy’s hands drag down from his hips to his ass, where he grabs a handful of each perky globe and pulls the cheeks apart, while his hips piston upwards into his tight heat. Hanzo’s eyes water from overstimulation, as every strike against his prostate adds to the fire burning in his veins, and forces another drop of pre to seep out of his cock and make a mess out of both his and Jesse’s stomachs. He manages to push himself up onto his elbows for long enough to attach his mouth to Jesse’s before he’s collapsing against him again.

Their kisses are rough and sloppy and loud, the slick sounds echoing in his eardrums accompanied by the slap of skin-on-skin. The friction of his cock sliding along Jesse’s abdomen, coupled with the intense pleasure that the cowboy was giving him with every rough thrust upwards, was tightening the coil in his belly, bringing him closer and closer to his release. He just needed a little  _ more _ , which Jesse seems eager to give him, as he parts from his lips and mouths over to his ear.

He feels the cowboy’s tongue along the shell of his ear, then his earlobe is being bitten and tugged and teased, and it only serves to add to the arousal pooled in his stomach. He barely has a moment to warn Jesse that he’s close before the man slams home again and begins to grind into his prostate, hips rotating and stirring Hanzo up inside, and that sinful, whiskey voice is assaulting his ears with its lewd words, “c’mon Hanzo, fuck, I’m so close,” he pauses to drag in a ragged breath, thrusts losing their consistency as he nears completion, “jus’ a lil’ more, wanna make it real good for you, fill you up all nice, watch it drip out of you,” Hanzo sneaks a hand between the two of them to stroke himself, his balls tightening once more with his impending release, while Jesse continues to ramble, “c’mon, baby, just,” he thrusts forward, deep and hard, and Hanzo gasps, he’s right there--

“-a lil’,” Hanzo grinds back against him as Jesse gives another hard thrust upward, he’s right at the edge, almost  _ there _ -

“-more!” Jesse drives in once more and stays there, just as Hanzo twists his hand on the upstroke and falls off the edge. He gasps the cowboy’s name, arching his back while his release spatters between them, thick and hot, while clenching around Jesse’s thick cock. He feels it twitch inside of him, McCree’s hands shaking where they hold him open, and, suddenly, there’s a wet heat filling him. He feels his softening erection give an interested twitch and let out another spurt of come, even though there is no way he can go for another round after this, while Jesse empties himself into him. Hanzo hears him muttering something into his ear, things in Spanish, all rolling ‘R’s and breathy syllables. He doesn’t know what he’s saying, just that it sounds nice, and he feels so wonderfully full, and, honestly, he could die happy right at that very moment. Sated and warm and on top of a cowboy. Truly a magnificent way to go.

Jesse is the first to move, rupturing the post-coital bliss that Hanzo had settled into. His cock slips out of Hanzo, leaving him empty and dripping. He makes sure to voice his disapproval with a whine, even as McCree slips out from underneath him and pads softly away from the bed. Hanzo pays him no mind, clenching his hole to attempt to keep the other’s seed from dripping out of him while he wraps his arms around one of his pillows. If he inhales the scent of cigar smoke and Jesse, well, no one needed to know.

Soon enough, he hears the other man return, and cracks an eye open to watch him walk back. He’s got a damp rag and his chest is clean of the pearly white strands of come that decorated it not even a few minutes ago. He pauses at the side of the bed, that soft smile back on his lips, and Hanzo feels his heart skip a few beats at the sight. Then Jesse is crawling onto the bed and gently turning hanzo onto his back. The man complies, though he has no way to resist it, what with how boneless and sated he is right now. Jesse swipes the warm, damp rag along his chest, cleaning him up as best as he can, before he tosses the square of fabric off in some random direction and lays down beside Hanzo.

He finds himself gathered up in the other’s arms, his back to the man’s broad chest, with those strong arms wrapped around his midsection, keeping him pinned there. Jesse lazily kisses the plethora of scarlet and purple marks scattered across his neck, humming something low and sweet in the back of his throat. Hanzo lays his hand over Jesse’s, humming back at him, and delights in the way the man threads their fingers together and tangles their legs. Content, warm, and wrapped up with the cowboy, he finds himself drifting into a well-deserved post-coital sleep.

He wakes in the morning with Jesse still wrapped around him, and to the sound of the man’s soft snoring. Hanzo can also feel the man’s morning wood, though he’ll take care of that later. He turns in the other’s grip, careful not to wake him, until he’s facing him, watching the man’s steady breathing. Briefly, he wonders if this was a one-time thing, or if they’ll be doing this again, or maybe, if they’re exclusive to one another. Dating. The thought has his cheeks darkening, and he instinctively goes to hide himself in the curve of the other’s neck. A mistake, as he hears Jesse grumble and tighten his hold on Hanzo, slowly dragging himself back to the world of the living.

“Mornin’,” Jesse grunts, voice rugged with sleep and smoke, while he worms one of his thighs between Hanzo’s legs and tugs him closer to nuzzle into the top of his head, “yer beautiful.” He leaves a sweet kiss on the top of his head, and huffs contentedly into the hair there. So domestic and delightful are his actions that Hanzo cannot help but blurt out what he’d been thinking.

“Is this a one-night stand,” Hanzo asks before he can stop himself, breathing it quickly and desperately against McCree’s clavicle. He feels the other man stiffen slightly, before he moves back to look into his eyes. He feels the need to bury his head back into the cowboy’s neck and to climb on top of him so they don’t have to have this conversation. But, it seems as though McCree is determined to assuage his worries, as he smiles and tilts his head down to kiss his nose. The panic that was quickly threatening to overtake Hanzo melts away immediately.

“Why, not unless you want it to be one, sugar,” Jesse answers, smooth and sweet, while he adjusts his hold on Hanzo’s waist, “was hoping we’d make this a regular thing. Maybe, I dunno, be my, uh, partner?” His tone, though easy, is just a touch nervous. Hanzo’s brow furrows at the sound.

The shorter man tilts his head up to take in the sight of Jesse McCree, with the morning sun shining pale yellow through the slats of the blinds on the far window, illuminating his skin with ribbons of hazy dawn light, and the lazy, easy smile on his face that’s betrayed only by the worry line that creases his brow bone, and imagines how in the hell a Brokeback Mountain fantasy and a silly crush became this. Whatever  _ this _ is. Though he’s certain he knows what to call it, he won’t be admitting it anytime soon. He leans up and kisses Jesse with his mouth closed, smiling against his lips, and feels the other man smile back into the kiss, relaxing minutely as the tension drains out of him.

“I was hoping for the same thing, Jesse McCree.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO WELCOME TO THE END 
> 
> Thank you for reading this monster of a fic!! Once again, this was for adorable-as-fuck.tumblr.com. Please, tell me what you think, and thank you for reading!!!
> 
> come pester me on tumblr at cawaiiey or twitter @cawaiiey_ !


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